


Fugue: Interval

by Pink_Dalek



Category: Endeavour
Genre: Gen, Missing Scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 17:17:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16664947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Dalek/pseuds/Pink_Dalek
Summary: The part of Fugue where Morse fell asleep at the wheel and Thursday took him home, from Morse’s POV.





	Fugue: Interval

**Author's Note:**

> I was going through my unpublished stories, found this, and polished it up. 
> 
> I haven’t been writing as much lately because I’ve been busy with another Morseverse project, and I just started a Tumblr for it. I'm a Tumblr newbie, learning as I go. I’m pinkiethedalek over there, and the blog is Texts From Oxford. Texts From Last Night meets the Morseverse. Definitely cracky, although there are texts that fit a little too poignantly. Hopefully I’m not the only one who thinks it’s funny.

Morse had been running on adrenaline for— he counted quickly— about twenty hours. Twenty hours that had started near the end of a long and difficult workday. He trailed behind Thursday in the corridor leading to DeBryn's morgue. He'd had no appetite that morning, after spending the night searching for Debbie Snow and being stabbed by Keith Miller, wanting only tea for its warmth and caffeine. In the end, he'd been glad he hadn't eaten when he'd seen Daniel Cronyn's remains. He'd been talking to the man only a few hours before his murder.

Thursday had insisted on dragging him to the canteen for lunch. "Need to keep your energy up," the older detective said. Fortified with a sandwich and more tea, Morse had felt somewhat more alert and ready to face the post-mortem. But now a kip was looking better and better.

The only good point about being so tired was that, for once, the procedure didn't bother him. He kept losing track of the conversation, staring into space unseeing. Every time he was forced back into awareness he had to shake himself a bit. A few more hours, he'd be done for the day— surely Miller had to sleep sometime as well.

It was on the drive between the morgue and the station that things very nearly went pear-shaped. He didn't even realize he'd dozed off until Thursday barked his name and grabbed the steering wheel.

"When did you last get any sleep? Pull over." Morse obeyed with a combination of horror and mortification.

"I'm sorry, sir— I didn't realize— "

After they'd switched places, Thursday put the car in gear before he spoke. "Not entirely your fault, lad. I should have been keeping an eye on you. You were the one solving those wretched puzzles. The rest of us managed to catch an hour's kip in shifts last night. And you were the one got injured at the Bodleian, too. How is that, by the way? Dr. DeBryn looked worried when he saw you."

"He— " _ordered, recommended_ " — suggested bed rest," Morse settled on the mildest word he could think of. He didn't want Thursday to decide to drop him off at his flat to rest when Keith Miller was still on the loose and they had no idea who the 'F' target was. He'd sleep when this was over. Or at least tonight. Miller had to be exhausted as well. He was one man doing all of this.

Thursday gave a disapproving rumble. "We'll go back to mine, have a cuppa and catch our breath. I should have sent you to rest after we found the Snow girl. Jakes and I could've handled the Cronyn scene."

"It's not necessary, sir. Besides, you need all hands on deck until we catch Miller."

The Jaguar pulled up in front of the house. Thursday showed him in, Morse still trying half-heartedly to protest.

"You're no good to me dead on your feet," Thursday finally told him, herding his protégé into the lounge while debating tea versus brandy aloud.

As Thursday left for the kitchen, Morse settled onto the sofa with a sigh. It felt ridiculously good to sit still and just breathe. He let his head drop back onto the cushion, his eyes falling shut as he got comfortable. He could let himself rest for a moment. Just until the tea was ready. Or the brandy. He heard Thursday and his wife in the kitchen on the other side of the wall, but they sounded oddly far away. His brain vaguely registered something being placed near his left elbow and dismissed it. The part of him that had been valiantly trying to stay awake had completely disappeared, silenced by stillness and quiet and a warm weight enfolding him.

He slept through Sam and Joan returning home from work, then through Win starting tea. When he woke in an unfamiliar dim room, it took him a few moments to get his bearings and remember where he was. By the light coming in to his right, he could make out the nearest lamp, and he slid out from whatever was draped over him to turn it on. As his eyes adjusted to the light he recognized his blanket as Thursday’s overcoat. He could hear voices in a nearby room and felt himself blushing with embarrassment. He stretched out muscles stiff with sleep, straightened his clothes, and smoothed down his hair with a pocket comb.

Finally, there was nothing for it. He opened the lounge door and stepped into the hall. The Thursdays were gathered around the table in the dining room next to the lounge. He hovered awkwardly in the doorway; Thursday promptly invited him to join them, and Mrs. Thursday set tea before him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a home-cooked meal, and she was an excellent cook.

Midway through his meal, the phone rang. Sam answered. "A Miss Frazil on the blower, Pop," he announced. Morse immediately went on alert.

Thursday talked for a few minutes, then returned to the table. "Dorothea Frazil's found something out about a case that sounds like the Miller one. Go ahead and finish," he told Morse, who was already half out of his seat. "I told her we were in the middle of tea, and she said not to rush. She's going to grab a sarnie and meet us at her office in about an hour."

"Sounds interesting," Joan said, eyes alight with curiosity.

"None of that, now," Thursday reproved, picking up his spoon. "Eat up," he said to Morse. "There's plenty more."

After the soup there was sponge cake with treacle for dessert. By the time he left the Thursday house, Morse felt far better. Rested, well-fed, and relaxed by the easy humor between Fred and his kids, he thanked Win profusely for dinner and "putting up with my sleeping in your lounge."

"It's no trouble. You're welcome to join us any time."

The meeting with Dorothea Frazil gave them more information to digest. Thursday and Morse talked about it as they drove away.

"Tell you what," Thursday said suddenly. "I'll drive us back to yours, then take the car home. I'll pick you up in the morning, say eight-thirty?"

"All right. Thank you sir. Didn't much fancy catching the bus anyway."

"You don't need the extra hassle right now. How's your side?"

"Sore, but better for resting."

"Good. Get yourself a good night's sleep and I'll see you in the morning." They pulled up outside Morse's flat. He thanked Thursday again and hurried upstairs to throw a few shillings in the gas meter. The evening had turned chilly.

A hot shower was welcome, although he had to be careful of his wound. By the time Morse emerged from the shower, his flat had warmed up. He dressed in pyjamas and dressing gown, then sorted out his clothes from the day. Part of him was waiting for the phone to ring with news of another death.

Going through Lonsdale on scholarship, he'd learned to do his own mending and get nearly any stain out of a white shirt. He cleaned the bloodstain from the shirt he’d borrowed from Jakes, washed it out, and clipped it onto the laundry line running across one end of the bathroom. Then he turned to the suit jacket, carefully sponging dried blood from the lining and where it had soaked through to the wool before draping it over a chair to dry. The suit would have to go to the cleaners, but at least he wouldn't be charged extra for stain removal.

Finally he put on a record and settled in with the day's crossword to unwind. The continuing lack of an emergency call from the station was also helping him relax. He turned out his bedside light a little after ten. It was earlier than usual, but the last few days were catching up with him. Best thing to do was sleep when he could, let the information they'd collected percolate through his brain, and see what he came up with in the morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
